


In Which Sherlock Will Not Sleep

by irrevocably-johnlocked (AurielleDawn)



Series: Before the Fall [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen, Johnlock Fluff, POV John Watson, Pre-Reichenbach, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-18
Updated: 2014-01-18
Packaged: 2018-01-09 04:52:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1141661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AurielleDawn/pseuds/irrevocably-johnlocked
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I swallow over the lump in my throat.  It hurts to look at him when he’s like this.  Most of the time, you can pretend that there’s no more to Sherlock Holmes than a mad genius with no feelings and an inhuman ability to function without food and rest.  But when his armor slips, you get a glimpse – and I should say I, I get a glimpse, because I don’t think anyone else ever does – of what it costs him to have a mind that will not rest and to be so very alone.</p><p>****</p><p>Sherlock can't relax.  John takes care of him.  Fluff and feels.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Which Sherlock Will Not Sleep

“You need to sleep, Sherlock.” I’m sitting on the couch with tea and my laptop, checking the blog and trying to wind down a bit so I can fall into my bed and sleep for 24 hours. (Or 6 hours. Maybe 8. However long Sherlock will let me.) The man himself, however, is stalking about the flat like a cat in a cage. A big, black, manic cat with wild curly hair and a silk robe. God, I’m overtired. 

It has literally been three hours since our last case. I can’t start another right now, and neither can he. Not without some rest. I glance up at him over the rim of my teacup. His eyes are bloodshot, he’s paler than usual (if that’s even possible), and his movements are becoming blocky and uncoordinated. It’s only adrenaline keeping his body upright at this point, but his damned brain just won’t quit.

“You’ve not slept in nearly three days,” I continue, eyes on my computer screen. “And if I’m not mistaken, you’ve slept about five hours the whole week included. If you don’t lie down, you’re going to fall down. And I swear to God I’ll take pictures of you drooling on the floor and send them to Lestrade. And Mycroft.” 

He shoots me a murderous look, continuing his pacing, hands steepled in front of his face. “I can’t sleep, John.” He sneers, as though the entire concept is repugnant. And his façade slips just a bit as his hands pull apart, one balling into a fist as the other raises to his temple. “There too much—“ He gestures in a wild circle at his head, and I sigh, nodding, and set my laptop aside.

“I need something to do, John!” He hisses, as though I am personally responsible for the fact that, apparently, no one has died interestingly today. (Although, to be fair, I’ve got two inquiries up my sleeve that I resolutely will not tell him about until we both get some goddamned rest.) I spare a moment to be thankful that I got him to eat a few bites this evening, wrangling him into our favorite Chinese while he was still high from the win. 

“Alright,” I say, resolutely, standing to walk to the kitchen. “I’m giving you a sedative.” He makes a petulant sound behind me and throws something that crashes as it hits the wall, and I hope to God that it was something of his and not mine. I brace for a fight. The problem is that in a state like this he can’t let go of the need for mental stimulus, so he fights the sedative, which can get rather ugly. He has to calm down enough to let them take effect. 

I get the pills and a glass of water and intercept him in the sitting room, blocking his way and looking up to capture his stormy, bloodshot eyes. “Trust me, Sherlock.” I say this intently, holding his gaze. Then, cracking a small, indolent smile, “I’m a doctor.” I hand him the glass and the pills, and he stares at me a moment longer, mouth drawn into a hard line. I can see that it’s taking effort for him to simply stand still this long. Jesus. He nods almost imperceptibly, then takes the pills, washing them down with a swig of water and handing the glass back to me. I set the glass aside, and when I turn back, he won’t meet my eyes. Some of the fight has gone out of him now, and instead of petulant and angry, he just looks desperate and haunted. It’s only his exhaustion letting me see that much.

I swallow over the lump in my throat. It hurts to look at him when he’s like this. Most of the time, you can pretend that there’s no more to Sherlock Holmes than a mad genius with no feelings and an inhuman ability to function without food and rest. But when his armor slips, you get a glimpse – and I should say _I, I get a glimpse,_ because I don’t think anyone else ever does – of what it costs him to have a mind that will not rest and to be so very alone.

He glances at me then and must see something on my face, because he quirks his mouth mirthlessly and almost whispers, “Don’t think that, John. I’m not alone. I have you.” And it’s unnerving to have him read my mind like that, but I’m used to it, and I can still see the desperation behind his eyes. So I simply nod and take his hand, leading him over to the couch. I sit at one end, pulling him down with me, and he lies on his side with his head on my lap. He’s strung as tight as a bow, and his breathing is elevated and a bit shaky. And I’m not Sherlock Holmes, but I know him well enough to know that his mind is racing, striving for something to grab hold of, to distract it, to focus on. He’ll fight the sedative physically thrashing at this rate, and bloody hell, I can’t watch that again. 

He starts to roll onto his back, into his thinking pose, gearing up for the fight, and I stop him with a hand on his shoulder. He goes still, like a startled animal, breath huffing out onto my jeans-clad thigh, and I rub his shoulder gently, then run my hand down his arm. His relaxes the barest amount. I continue for a moment, rubbing from arm to shoulder and back, slow and soothingly, the way you’d comfort a child after a fall or a fight. His breath is beginning to normalize, just a bit, and the pinch between his closed eyes is lessening. I just watch him, my own breath catching, terrified he’ll notice and deduce something I can’t even begin to name myself. My hand moves to his hair, kneading his scalp, and he sighs, tension draining from his body, the lines in his forehead and between his eyes disappearing. He arches his neck into my hand, rubbing his face into my thigh, and I bury my hand his soft brown curls. Something swells in my chest and clenches in my gut, and I’m afraid to think about it. 

So I don’t. I just don’t. 

I run my hand through Sherlock’s hair, and I rub his neck and knead his scalp, and he burrows into me like a kitten, hand moving to grasp my knee. And I’m more than a little awed and humbled, that of all the people in the world, John Watson has the power to calm and comfort the great Sherlock Holmes (my lips twitch at the moniker), to pull him out of his head, just a bit. And I’m honored. Tears spring into my eyes as I realize this, and I dash them away with my other hand. And I sit with him like that, using my touch as an anchor, drawing him down and away until his breathing is deep and even with sleep. And still I sit, until my own exhaustion becomes too much, and I shift out from under him, putting a pillow under his head and fetching a blanket from his room to cover him. He shifts and hugs the pillow, sighing my name, and the tears come again. I just let them fall this time, as I reach out to brush a dark curl away from his face.

“Goodnight, Sherlock.”

**Author's Note:**

> I place this fic in between Series 1 and 2, before John's blog was turning out enough work to keep Sherlock busy. This series will be filled in with more pre-Reichenbach one-offs in random order, and I'm also working on larger post-HLV Johnlock fic. 
> 
> The format for this piece was inspired by thequeergiraffe's "The Spaces In-Between" series, which I adore.
> 
> I'm fairly new to the fandom and honing my skills, so feedback is appreciated! (Particularly if I make any canon- or UK-related errors.)
> 
> Thanks!
> 
> Note that I'm changing my pseud on my Johnlock fic so tumblr followers can find me.


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